The Glass Rim
by bluebloodedturian
Summary: They were close friends and loyal comrades, nothing more. But when death transcends their relationship, both Garrus and Shepard come to realize their feelings for one another have changed. Garrus/Femshep. Spoilers for ME1 and 2.
1. Bullets

**The Glass Rim**

_They were close friends and loyal comrades, nothing more. Garrus respected her for her leadership. Shepard admired him for his sharp wit and cleverness. But when death transcends their relationship and blurs the line between two friends, they are faced with feelings they never knew they had. Garrus/Femshep. Spoilers for all three games. _

* * *

**01: **Bullets

.

The sky above the docking bay reminded Shepard of gutter water - flat and gray, and just as murky.

As the dark-haired Spectre exited the Normandy, squadmates Mordin and Miranda at her side, she stole a glance out at the bleak cityscape that awaited her.

It had only been a few days since she and her squad had last visited Omega and ridden it of plague. But as she hurried through streets that were thick with steam and grime, she could see that nothing had changed.

The stench of putrid filth, mingled with ryncol, filled the air in a sweltering haze. Streetlights bled shades of orange into the pavement, sharpening the shadows where vorcha lurked and dealers swapped pills for pocket change. Humans crowded around the Afterlife entrance, some blurting out slurred speech to an unyielding elcor, others quietly sucking on cigarettes with plumes of smoke pooling from their mouths. Nearby, a turian guard clutched his gun with an almost sinister air, his beady eyes missing nothing. Sweaty asari prostitutes swayed their hips to the electric murmur of distant club music, which rose high above the dusky skyscrapers, beyond the steel walls that housed Afterlife and its drunken patrons.

Omega was Omega, as it would always be: a world of darkness and intrigue, forever lost to the clutches of its own seedy underbelly. There was life and there was energy, sure, and the city lights seemed to never fade, but it was a hollow shell, a pale city swallowed by Hallex, and plague, and slaves, and brothels. It was here where even the most innocent of souls could lose themselves to drugs and extortion and pleasure, among other things. It was here where Shepard had recruited Mordin a mere two days ago. Now she was here yet again, hoping to find and recruit the elusive vigilante known as Archangel.

She needed him. She knew nothing about him, only that he was a turian, and his expertise as a sniper was something to be reckoned with. In short, he was an ally worth pursuing, and she would find him, this Archangel, even if that meant plunging into the bowels of Omega.

She knew precisely where to start, too: Aria. If there was anyone who knew the wire-work of this shadowy underworld, it was her. Aria was the very center of Omega - Omega _herself_, even, as the cocky asari had once boasted - and that was exactly why Shepard went to speak with her.

Afterlife was a sultry nightlife scene, tinged with sex and danger. Shepard had been here before, so nothing was unfamiliar: she recognized the smooth-talking turian bartender, serving up drinks from ryncol to batarian ale to vodka. The dancers still spun their sinuous bodies on a platform above the bar, and the lights still pulsed with red and pink colors, flashing in a way that reminded her, almost uncomfortably, of the loss of the original Normandy.

She thought back to that day quite often, which somehow seemed light years away. There were still certain things that triggered the memory, dragging it out from the deepest recesses of her mind. Red colors, flames, and explosions reminded her of the initial attack. Silence, darkness, and zero gravity made her recall her freefall into galactic space. All brought her back to her death. All made her wish that she'd stopped to make sure he'd made it out of the ship in time, too. She'd never doubted his abilities, of course: he was quick and sharp, and he knew his way around the Normandy. But still, she would have liked to have seen his face one more time before they'd both had their worlds torn to hell.

Just once.

Even with the flashing lights and pounding music stirring her worst memories, Shepard refused to let it hinder her. She had a mission, and that mission couldn't be fulfilled until she spoke with Aria. So she slid through the crowds with purpose, ignoring the way eyes seemed to flit across her scarred face first, then linger on her N7 armor. Some people might recognize her, she knew. No doubt they'd be confused, or suspicious - after all, the former Spectre was supposed to be _dead_, not winding her way through the crowds of some sweaty nightclub.

Shepard led the way to Aria's lair, bypassing a bad-tempered batarian who regarded her and her teammates with nothing more than a sneer. They found Aria lounging on a leather sofa, her feet propped up and her eyes studying the shocking pink lights around her. She looked bored, but her expression turned to one of wry amusement. "Well, well. Look who it is. Can't stay away from this place, can you, Shepard?" she smirked.

Without waiting for a response, she gestured towards the sofa, pointedly offering only Shepard a seat. Shepard sat, nodding once to Mordin and Miranda, who remained dutifully at the foot of the stairs.

"So, what can I do for you?" Aria prompted dully, lacing her indigo fingers on her lap.

"I'm trying to track down Archangel," Shepard explained.

"You, and half of Omega," the asari drawled. "You want him dead, too?"

Shepard shook her head. "Why is everyone after him?"

She knew the answer, of course. From what she could piece together, Archangel was dismantling the control of the Omega gang system, dwindling down their numbers with grand and strategic attacks that were a style reminiscent of guerrilla warfare. Though she knew this, she was curious to hear Aria's take on the matter.

Aria rolled her eyes and spat derisively, "He thinks he's fighting on the side of _good. _There_ is_ no good side to Omega." Her gaze swiveled to the dance floor, blue eyes sharp enough to cut. Her voice was carefully nonchalant, but there was a crispness about it that suggested there was something under her skin, making Shepard wonder if there had ever been a rift between her and Archangel. "Everything he does pisses someone off," Aria continued. Then, with a slow smirk curling on one side of her mouth, she said with satisfaction, "It's catching up to him."

Shepard regarded this news with interest. "Just the guy I'm looking for."

"Really?" Aria mocked. "Well, aren't you interesting?" She stared Shepard down and warned, "You're going to make some enemies teaming up with Archangel. That's assuming you can get to him," she added lightly. "He's in a bit of _trouble _right now."

"What kind of trouble?" Shepard demanded. She didn't like to think that her potential ally - a mercenary that, to the best of her knowledge, appeared to be fighting for a valid cause - was in some kind of immediate danger.

Aria smirked. "The local merc groups have joined forces to take him down. They've got him cornered, but it sounds like they're having trouble finishing him off. They've started hiring anybody with a gun to help them." She gestured lazily towards a side door, where a study mercenary stood. "Blue Suns, Eclipse, Blood Pack. They're Omega's major players. Unless they're at war, you'll never see them together. But one thing they hate more than each other is Archangel."

Shepard stood. She'd heard enough. Now she had a trail, one that would likely lead her straight to Archangel himself. At least, she certainly hoped so. She murmured a brief goodbye to the sharp-eyed asari, then joined her squad mates at the bottom of the stairs. Once they were out of earshot from Aria's cronies, she filled them in. "We'll need to team up with the local merc groups in order to track down Archangel," she explained.

Mordin was nodding. "Good plan. Utilizing the ruse of freelance mercenaries to trick unsuspecting gang leaders. Wise. Crafty. No one to suspect in the midst of desperation-fueled battle."

Miranda, however, looked unconvinced. "You can't be serious, Shepard."

"It's the only lead we've got," Shepard reminded her calmly, swallowing her impatience with the woman and her constant qualms. "And the only way we can get closer to Archangel."

"Well. I sure hope you know what you're doing, Shepard."

"You'll just have to trust me, Miranda," Shepard murmured, as the pulsing neon lights swirled and slithered clouds of color all around her. She squared her jaw and turned a steady gaze towards the merc recruiter Aria had pointed out. "If this is the only way we can reach Archangel, then so be it."

.

Streams of gunfire rocked the air as mercenaries poured across the bridge, closing in on the derelict building where Garrus Vakarian crouched.

The turian was breathing heavily now, not out of exhaustion, or fear - as one might expect from a vigilante holding his own against a hundred enemies - but of adrenalin. From his vantage point, he could see all of the approaching mercs, every last shitless one of them, as they attempted to smear him off the face of Omega.

No matter how many soldiers the gangs threw at him, he'd ended every single one. All it took was a shift of his sharp eye through the scope, a pull of the trigger with one long, practiced finger, and then _boom. _Nothing but a cloud of blood and a lump of flesh in the place where a mercenary had once stood. Quick, clean kills, and nothing more. It was meticulous work, and instant, at that. There were times when he grew almost bored of the slaughter, times when he relished in it, but most of all, there were times when he simply felt nothing at all.

Now, however, he was _really _feeling it, enjoying the way his targets dropped dead like flies, struck down by each trained bullet. All the while he thought of her, and fought for her - knowing full well that while she wouldn't approve of his extremist actions, at least she'd respect his intentions and understand that he was fighting for the greater good. He might have felt sorry for the body count he'd caused, if not for all of the atrocities he'd witnessed under the hand of the rival gangs. Of their malicious actions that had soaked into Omega like some kind of poison, driving the city deeper and deeper into the dredges of crime and oppression until it was smothered underneath a layer of filth altogether.

Their numbers were thinning, he knew, but they still had what seemed like a tremendous amount of firepower. He still had plenty of munitions to use against them, too, but he couldn't hold out forever. They'd cornered him, the bastards, and it wouldn't be long before they crossed the bridge and overwhelmed him. He was just one turian with a damn sniper rifle, and while he was fairly certain that he had more brains than fifty of those witless mercs put together, he wouldn't put it past them to finally clunk their heads together and find some way to ambush him.

He'd keep fighting, though. He might have only been one turian, but he was Garrus Vakarian. He'd helped save the galaxy from Saren and Sovereign. He'd worked alongside the legendary Commander Shepard and the Normandy crew. And, in recent months, he and his late team had annihilated those that had engaged in crime and other unethical conduct on Omega. The last thing Garrus Vakarian wanted to do was die in this piss hole of a world, sweaty, tired, and all alone.

So he held himself together, checking his scope, scouting the bridge, and burying bullets into the brains of any mercenary who dared to try and approach his post.

Sometimes, when there was a lull in the gunfire and the mercs held back, Garrus thought of the Normandy, and that was when he lost focus. He couldn't help it, especially now that he was cornered. The sound of the first explosion that had rocked the ship still kept him awake late at night, an unyielding horror that broke through even the toughest barriers he'd built in his mind. He'd searched for his Commander, had called her name, but he'd lost her in all the panic and confusion. When he'd heard that she hadn't survived the attack, he'd blamed himself for her demise. He thought he could have done more. Could have stayed with her on the ship. Could have prepped the Normandy with more efficient firing algorithms. Could have done _something. _Anything.

He'd moved on after the Normandy, of course, first splitting from those gutless cowards over at C-Sec without so much of a care, then joining up with local vigilantes to crusade against all the crime souring Omega. His team had perished over time. Sidonis had betrayed him. Everything had fallen apart after that, little by little, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. And it didn't help that he'd messed up on a number of occasions. Sometimes he let his cockiness overrun him, sometimes his anger. In any case, he'd made his own mistakes, and now here he was, crouched in some dirty building in an attempt to make one last stand, determined to evade a death that surely awaited him.

A bullet sliced through the air, striking one of the building's columns and throwing up a cloud of shrapnel and stone; the fragments rained down upon the weary turian, clattering on his plated blue armor. He grunted.

Coldly, quietly, he raised his rifle and peered through the scope.

His target was approaching at a running crouch, firing a scatter of bullets in his direction. Garrus pulled the trigger, and watched with indifference as the man's head exploded into meaty matter, and his helmet tumbled to the ground with a defeated clunk. Another expired soul, another kill that hardly seemed to matter anymore. The turian closed his eyes for a moment, wondering when this hell would come to an end.

And why he couldn't have saved her.

Gunshots jolted him from his reverie, and he snapped his eyes open - only to see a group of mercenaries running at full speed towards his post.

Garrus lifted his rifle, but it was too late. They had already breached the perimeter. He slouched down as enemy fire struck the pillar again, showering him in debris. So, this was it, then. _Crap_. One simple mistake of closing his eyes - even for a heartbeat - and now he was doomed. He reloaded his weapon and trained it on the closest doorway, knowing fully well that he was going to die, right here, in this stinking backwater hole of a city, sweat pouring down his back, dryness cluttering his throat like grains of sand. But he'd make sure to take down as many of those little mercenary shits as he could.

He suddenly wished he had a grenade.

"That would be _really _helpful right about now," he muttered gruffly under his breath. But there was no time to wish, only to do. So he divided his attention between the doorway and the bridge, his eyes sharp, ready to shoot on sight.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs, but he didn't waver. He merely narrowed his eyes and drew one finger closer to the trigger.

Then he saw her armor through the scope, and his breath caught.

"Well, then," he said, after he'd recovered from his shock. A small, crooked grin began to curl on the corner of his mouth. His mandibles twitched. He let out a raspy chuckle, something that was between disbelief and amusement.

He certainly hadn't expected this.


	2. Blue Blood

**02: **Blue Blood

**.**

Commander Shepard approached the door that concealed Archangel, heavy pistol held at the ready.

Though still wary of this elusive vigilante and his staggering body count, even she couldn't deny the expert precision of his sniping skill. While hunkering down on the opposite side of the bridge, formulating a plan with her team, she'd witnessed Archangel gun down countless mercenaries with ease, one headshot after another, as if it was nothing more than second nature. She still knew very little about him, other than what she'd seen and heard from rumors and snippets of data. She had no idea what to expect from him. She didn't even know if he'd agree to join her ranks. She did, however, hope that he wasn't the kind to shoot first, ask questions later.

Shepard turned a ready gaze to Miranda and Mordin. They met her stare without hesitation, so she took that as the cue to proceed.

The door was unlocked; it swiveled open with a flash of greenish light and a hiss of depressurization, and suddenly she and her squadmates were pouring into the room. They found the vigilante hunched over the stone railing, his rifle snapping off a round and his body hunched over in a spidery crouch. She couldn't see his face: only darkness beyond the impenetrable visor of his helmet. All the while, gunfire continued to slice the air around them, a fusillade of thunder.

"Archangel?" Shepard demanded.

Archangel turned his head once in her direction, cold, frozen light sliding along the blue of his armor like water. Then he looked away from Shepard and her squad, out towards the bridge littered with bodies and bullet shells. He raised his rifle and struck down an approaching mercenary in a mere second, sealing away his life with a resounding _pop_.

When all was quiet once more, the armored turian rose slowly and patiently, clearly relaxed in the presence of his intruders. Shepard watched him warily, not knowing what his next actions would be, and whether or not she'd have to do some quick talking.

Then he lowered his gun and removed his helmet.

Shepard couldn't believe her eyes. It was him.

It was Garrus.

There he was, her best friend and loyal comrade, standing before her in a dirty building on the outskirts of Omega. He looked just as she had remembered - a tall, broad-shouldered turian with an avian-like physique, plated in a carapace of grayish, metallic skin. His face was swathed in blue tattoos - a mark of his turian heritage. His eagle-like eyes were pale, the color of rainwater, with one eye kept hidden behind a glowing visor.

He was Garrus, but then again, he wasn't. There was something about him that was _off _to her _- _foreign, almost. Maybe it was because she hadn't seen him in two years, rendering him almost a stranger. Maybe it was that peculiar, almost predatory glint in his eyes - the byproduct of killing and holding his defenses for several days now, she assumed. Nonetheless, she was thrilled to see him, however different he looked. He was here, and that was all that mattered.

She moved towards him, breathlessly calling out his name. "Garrus!"

"Shepard," he rumbled, "I thought you were dead."

Her heart suddenly felt heavy, as though weighed down with water. She moved closer, unable to contain a grin. "Garrus, what are you doing here?"

"Just keeping my skills sharp," Garrus replied carelessly, but Shepard could see the toll it had taken on him: beads of sweat on his carapace, a haggard glaze to his eyes, movements that seemed half-hearted, almost lifeless. "A little target practice."

"You okay?" she asked concernedly.

"Been better," he admitted. "But it sure is good to see a friendly face. Killing mercs is hard work...especially on my own."

He moved closer towards her, his eyes first lingering inquiringly on her companions, then on her scars. But he said nothing about either of them, only launched into a summary about the bridge that had kept him safe for so long, and how they might be able to use it to their advantage. He was tired. She could see that he wanted out, and therefore she would do everything in his power to make that happen.

The next hour or so was a blur of breathless running, ducking, and gunfire. Shepard held the entrance, collecting mercs with dark spheres of energy before imploding them with a biotic _boom _that seemed to break their bodies in two. Miranda held left flank, Mordin held right, while Garrus remained at his perch on the second story, blasting the brains out of any enemy that dared to come near.

And then, in the midst all the slaughter, she heard it.

The whir of approaching helicopter blades, followed by floodlight that eerily illuminated the empty corridors of their building. The mercs had sent their _gunship._

She gasped and scrambled up the stairs, towards her turian comrade, who she knew was exposed on the second floor.

But she was too late. She threw her body flat on the ground a torrent of bullets sliced through the air, striking every wall, every desk, every column. When she dared to lift her head above the dust and debris, she saw the gunship launch a missile directly at Garrus, who, now wounded, tried to crawl away from the barrage of gunfire. She cried out his name as he was blasted backwards, landing in a lifeless heap on the ground. Blue blood pooled around his frame, staining the cracked tiles.

Suddenly, she was on fire. The next few moments were filled with her anger, her fear, her desperation, as she and her squad took down the gunship. When at last it exploded and came tumbling to the earth in a plume of metallic smoke, she rushed towards Garrus and held his head in her lap, stroking the smooth plate of his bloodied brow, whispering words to him that were as soft as rain.

"We're getting you out of here, Garrus," she told him, fighting her panic. "Just hold on."

And even as he bled, and her heart thrummed, and a terrifying silence veiled the city around them, she knew he would.

.

Amidst the engine hum that seemed to fill the Normandy's steel corridors with nothing more than a low, whirring murmur, Garrus Vakarian woke.

He sat up slowly, one side of his face aching, the rest of his body feeling raw and fragile, as though it were plated with glass, not rough turian hide. He gazed around, absorbing his surroundings through one bleary eye. Where was he? For a moment, he thought he was in the Med-Bay of the old SSV Normandy. But no, that simply wasn't possible… the Normandy had been destroyed in deep space almost two years ago. The ship he loved had been lost, and so had its Commander, along with many of its loyal crew. That was the honest truth of it. So _why _on earth did this room look so similar to the old starship? The same glass windows, the same metal work, the same peculiar, sterile smell that stung his nose.

He brought a hand to his aching head, trying to remember what had happened, and why he was here. His thoughts felt waterlogged, lost to the throes of exhaustion and confusion, but within moments he was able to recall what had happened, albeit not with difficulty: his stand-off in that dusty building in the Saturn District of Omega, the flash of a missile as it was dispatched from an enemy gunship, and _her_…?

He shook his head uncertainly, and slowly, so as not to stir his pounding headache. Had he really seen his Commander, or had that all just been some desperate hallucination, the result of brushing against the veil of death?

No. She couldn't have been there. She'd died on the Normandy two years ago, blasted to pieces in the blackness of an unyielding galaxy. The chances of her actually appearing in the spithole of Omega, to find him, to aid him, was a piteous thought. He would never see her again. Never watch her stand before the galaxy map with the stars in her eyes, or wield a weapon with swift precision that he often regarded with enviousness, or be able to tell her how grateful he was that she let him tag along on her mission to stop Saren all those years ago. Now she only existed in his thoughts and his memories, where she seemed to flourish more often than not, a ghost that would never fade, but would remain as only a pale imitation of the real thing.

His head throbbed, and he dropped it to his chest, trying not to faint from exhaustion and what he presumed to be some kind of heavy painkiller. His fingers found a foreign metal plate on one side of his skull, fused to what felt like stripped, scarred flesh - flesh that made his spine tingle and his mandibles twitch from discomfort when he touched it. He was puzzled. How badly had he been injured, exactly?

The green seal of the medical bay door opened, and he caught sight of a familiar face: Dr. Chakwas. She was followed by a dark-skinned man with a muscular build whom he didn't entirely recognize. For a moment, he was wary; while he was both shocked but reassured to see the Normandy's former medical practitioner, he didn't like being near this stranger, especially whilst he was in such a confused and vulnerable state. Had he been the normal Garrus Vakarian, uninjured, intimidating, and fully equipped with standard weaponry - or even _Archangel _in the heydays before everything had gone to shit - he might have simply brushed this man off and gone about his business, cool as could be. But here he was, broken and injured, not even certain where he was, or if he was simply immersed in a dream. So he said nothing, but kept a watchful eye on the man as Dr. Chakwas led him into the room.

"Ah, Garrus Vakarian," she said in her smooth, patient voice. "Still getting shot at, I see."

"Some things never change, I guess." Though he was still in a great deal of pain, he couldn't resist a wry smile. "Even when I try to dodge the bullets, they _still _manage to find me. Some kind of turian magnetism, perhaps."

"Well, you certainly dodged one hell of a bullet this time, Vakarian, no doubt about it. I'll be honest when I say that you're lucky to be alive. Let's hope that luck of yours doesn't run out any time soon, shall we?"

He brushed one slow, uncertain finger against the cool metallic plate bound to his skull, which certainly hadn't been there before. "I take it this is your fine handiwork, doctor?"

"The most I could do with such an appalling wound," she explained, stealing a loaded glance with the companion beside her. "You were in a rather…worrying state, Vakarian. Extreme blood loss, hemorrhaging, cerebral contusions…We were forced to turn to cybernetics simply to keep you alive. That projectile _very_ much wanted you dead. But of course, I wouldn't allow it - and neither would your exceptional turian physiology, in any case. The last thing we needed was for Garrus Vakarian - excuse me, _Archangel - _to be wiped clean from the face of the universe."

Garrus, while thankful for the doctor's kind words, could not help but feel a twinge of bitterness at being reminded of his alternate ego. It didn't matter anymore, though. Archangel had died a noble death on Omega, struck down by a missile that had streamlined his inevitable defeat. Many wars had been fought in that pathetic excuse for a civilization, and while he liked to think he'd won a few, he knew that in the end he'd lost them all.

"Cybernetics, then?" he drawled, trying to sound nonchalant, when in fact the very thought of having synthetic implants made him uneasy.

"Correct," Dr. Chakwas said. "You may have some difficulty adapting to such a change, but we'll hold routine physical and mental therapy to counteract any challenges that may arise." She stepped forward slowly, folding her arms across her chest. "Wounds should begin to heal over the course of the next few days or so; turian carapace is surprisingly resilient and regenerative. Your scars, however, are another matter. I'm afraid there's not much that can be done about them."

"Hm. I see."

He suddenly felt nauseous. Cold, silvery light flashed off the bedpans and sterile countertops that surrounded him, sharp enough to sting his eyes like broken glass and make his head throb. His turian blood began to boil, as his instincts kicked in and urged him to run, to flee this place and its horrible bright lights and chemical stench. He wanted somewhere dark and cool, where he could brood and accept his defeat - lick his wounds, if you will. But he remained right where he was, soothed by Dr. Chakwas' presence and the Med-Bay's familiarity. Trying to keep his voice steady, he joked, "Well, then. I suppose things could have been worse. I'll admit I've never been the most _attractive _turian, but here's hoping this is a significant improvement in terms of alluring the opposite sex."

Dr. Chakwas chuckled. "Oh, I'm certain you'll have no trouble in finding female turians to allure, Vakarian, scars or not."

He paused for a moment, thinking about one female in particular. Though, she certainly was no turian.

At that moment, the dark-skinned stranger abruptly stepped forward and held out one hand. "Garrus Vakarian, I'm Jacob Taylor. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard a great deal about you from the Commander."

Garrus distantly shook Taylor's hand, all former aggression now replaced with dumbstruck awe at the man's words. His mind was reeling. He wondered if he'd heard correctly. Trying to keep cool, he murmured quietly, "So. She really is alive, then?"

"She is," Dr. Chakwas said, a note of pride ringing in her voice. "Much to the surprise of us all."

Garrus gave a throaty laugh, then winced as a burning sensation tingled along his face. "When I saw her on Omega, I thought I'd been dreaming. Or that I'd died, or something. Seeing her again, well… let's just say that's something I certainly would have never thought possible."

"None of us did," Jacob said. "But if there's anything I've learned since joining her squad, it's that the Commander's tough as nails."

Garrus missed the human idiom. "Nails, hm? I'd liken her to steel, honestly. Or carbyne, maybe. Either way, you're right. She's a tough one, alright. More than anything this galaxy could hope for."

The turian stood slowly, ignoring the disapproving glance Dr. Chakwas shot in his direction. He was thinking of Shepard now, wondering where she was, and whether or not she'd escaped the fight on Omega unscathed. He remembered that glint in her eye and the gleam of sweat on her brow, and of course, that steely intent that fixed her face as she fought to protect her squadmates before herself. Casually, trying to revert back to his usual wit, he said, "You know, I don't mean to brag, but the Commander and I are pretty close. I take it she's briefed you on my extreme distaste for human food and a distinctive fondness for reiterative calibrations?"

Taylor smiled. "I almost wish she had. The most she got to talk about was your proficiency behind the scope of a sniper rifle - although her commendation is definitely a plus, your dossier certainly is extensive enough to convey your expertise. You've had quite the impressive background, Vakarian. Turian soldier, C-Sec operative, Omega vigilante, Normandy crewmate and savior of the Citadel. You're just what Cerberus needs."

"Cerberus?" Garrus had been thinking of Shepard up until now. His sharp eyes swiveled in Taylor's direction, a questioning gleam in his eyes. "Is that where I am, then? In the hands of a human-focused faction whose questionable and, ah, _unscrupulous_ methods insult the very foundation of Council Space?"

"Yes, sir."

"Interesting."

He found it almost funny that after running around in the rank, uncivilized depths of Omega, he'd somehow found himself back in the shady workings of an organization that engaged in lawless conduct without a care. He knew little of Cerberus, only of what the sparse files and data from his days back at C-Sec had told him. And while his former boss used to paint Cerberus' actions as unethical and overzealous, Garrus honestly didn't really give two shits about them. If they succeeded or failed, who cared? He knew they were working in their best interests, which was to advance the position of humankind in space - even if that meant working outside the law. He could understand the benefits of that, anyway. Trying to bring a criminal to justice but accomplishing nothing due to restrictions was akin to chewing sand, or getting a mandible torn off. He'd certainly learned the hard way whilst tracking Saren. Sometimes rules were efficient, but most times they were just a pain in the ass.

Dr. Chakwas stepped forward. "While I don't entirely agree with Cerberus, I will say that they did the world a remarkable service by bringing Shepard back to life. Same with the ship - it looks just like our old Normandy, doesn't it?"

"Hmm. So I _wasn't _hallucinating from those pain meds. That's a reassuring thought."

"The ship is a remarkably accurate duplicate," she continued, "but with much better upgrades. You'll very much enjoy the main battery, I've no doubt about that."

Garrus' eyes lit up, in spite of his injuries, but Taylor changed the subject. "We'll provide you with a tour later," he said. "But let's find you more comfortable quarters in the meantime."

"What about Shepard? Where is she?"

Dr. Chakwas walked forward and laid one hand to rest on the turian's lean, exposed arm. He looked down at her touch, and his eyes narrowed as he realized just how battered his body was. He'd been so fixated with the Commander and the ruins of his Archangel past that he'd forgotten just how close he'd been to death. His plated skin was a mosaic of bruises and unhealed wounds, some of which still were congealed with blue blood. There were parts where his hide had been burned away, others that looked like patches of muscle fused with metal. With his armor and visor removed, he felt scrawny and sinewy, and it made him quite uneasy.

Instead of shying away from the doctor's touch, he looked straight at her as she promised him, "You need your rest for now. But don't you worry, Vakarian. You'll see your Commander soon enough."

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone enjoying the story so far!

As a side note, this Shepard is based off my own FemShep; adept, paragon, and most importantly, attracted to turians.

I deliberately left out her name, though, just for reader purposes.

Next chapter should be up soon!


	3. Gray

**03: **Gray

.

Shepard was being briefed by Jacob Taylor in the comm room when the doors glided open, and her old turian comrade came sauntering in.

For a moment, she regarded him with a mixture of shock and amusement. From what she'd heard, Garrus was currently recovering from cybernetic fusion and post-surgery, and would remain in his quarters until he was able to stand on his own two feet again. And yet here he was, looking slightly weary, but otherwise unfazed. There were new synthetic implants and an artificial graft embedded in his skull, glistening in the low, colorless light. Parts of his blue armor that hadn't been ripped away in the blast were sooty and scorched. The skin all along the right side of his face was mangled and scraped away, but nonetheless, he appeared to be in decent shape. No significant trauma of any kind.

Shepard couldn't believe that he was up and walking, especially after just how badly he'd been injured following the gunship attack. Her heart had been fit to burst when she'd carried his limp body across the battlefield littered with bodies, his blue turian blood staining her skin and her armor like ink. She couldn't remember a time when she'd been so fearful in her life, not even when she'd tumbled into the terrifying depths of dark space. Nothing compared to that moment of thinking she was going to lose one of her closest friends.

And though she tried to tell herself that she'd merely worried over Garrus like she would any valiant wounded squadmate, she couldn't help but feel as though there'd been something more that had driven her terror. She'd been so happy to finally see him again, but all that had crumbled when she'd seen him dying, convulsing in a pool of his own blood. But it didn't matter now; he was here, he was safe, and he would no doubt accompany her on her mission to stop the Collectors. She was amused, in any case, that he'd simply strolled right in the comm room like the hit he'd taken had been no big fucking deal. Most people would have needed a few days at most to recover, but he was certainly one -

"Tough son of a bitch," Jacob said, inadvertently finishing her own thoughts for her. "Didn't think he'd be up yet."

Two light-colored turian eyes turned to Shepard, one shielded behind the bluish glow of his trademark visor. He murmured her name in greeting, then grunted, "Nobody would give me a mirror. How bad is it?"

Shepard folded her arms and smirked. "Hell, Garrus, you were always ugly," she joked, "Slap some face-paint on there, and no one will even notice." She didn't mean it, really, but in the midst of all that had happened, the most she could do was toss jokes around like they'd just gone out for drinks the night before.

Garrus choked out a rasp of laughter, then groaned in pain. "Ah. Oh, don't make me laugh, damn it. My face is barely holding together as it is." His banter was light and carefree, reminding her of the Garrus she'd always known - the turian who cracked jokes during the most tense of moments, and tried to break the ice with witty remarks during lengthy elevator wait times.

Now he characteristically slouched and slung his head from side to side when making a point, his frame just as lanky as always. "Some people find facial scars attractive," he said. Then he paused, looking thoughtful. "Mind you, most of those women are krogan."

Shepard looked away, unable to hide a smile.

At length, Jacob saluted and headed for the armory, leaving the two alone together. The perpetual whirl of engines and working machinery filled the room, the only sound to penetrate the steel walls surrounding them. Shepard summoned a breath from the depths of her chest. She was not at all opposed to the idea of moving closer to Garrus - not in the slightest. But she needn't have speculated, however, as within moments Garrus was walking towards her, eyes never trailing once from her face.

"Frankly," he admitted. "I'm more worried about you. I've heard bad things about Cerberus these past few years."

Shepard could understand his qualms. Cerberus certainly was no peacekeeping venture, nor did it have a spotless reputation. It was an organization that shunned morality and operated by what they in their own right believed to be just. She despised everything about them, from their enigmatic core to the Illusive Man - but nonetheless, she needed to work with them in order to finish the dark threat of the Reapers. So she explained to Garrus, "That's why you're here, Garrus. If I'm walking into hell, I want someone I trust at my side."

"You realize this plan has me walking into hell, too." His voice was gruff, then it lightened as he gave her a satisfied smirk. "Hah. Just like old times."

She studied him with bright eyes. _Just like old times._

_._

Shepard was restless.

All throughout the evening she tossed and turned in her bed, and paced the room on bare feet, and gulped down glass after glass of ice water, thinking. Analyzing. Speculating. The day had been one long, eventful blur of desperation and danger, as she once again walked the fine glass line that divided life from death. Gunfire still rang in her ears, coupled with the thunderous explosion that had sent concrete splintering, glass exploding, Garrus bleeding. Adrenalin from the fight had not yet seeped from her body; even now, as she was immersed in the comfort and safety of her own cabin, she couldn't help but feel unsettled.

Her eyes traveled around the cabin, examining everything: from the aquarium that shifted with watery blue light, to the pristine ship models that glimmered in their broad glass display. While looking around, she suddenly felt very, very empty. This ship was hollow to her, a shell that still whispered with the names and faces of her former, fallen crew. And while it was still a magnificent render of the real thing, she couldn't help but think of the original SSV Normandy. Glory days flashed in her mind, soothing her, until they were replaced by the sight of its shattered wreckage splayed all across the snow-smoothed plains of Alchera.

Her chest stung, and she closed her eyes. Nothing left on this ship was the same was before, with the exception of four of its crew: Dr. Chakwas, Garrus, Joker, and Shepard herself. The corridors might have looked the same, and her cabin was a She was glad, at the very least, to have Garrus with her again. It reminded her of the old days, days that didn't seem so far away anymore. Now, all she needed was Liara, Tali, Wrex, and Kaidan to join her, and piece together the fragments of their crumbled history that had once been.

She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep anytime soon, not with her mind spiraling like some kind of clockwork, so she rose to her feet and pulled on her casual clothes.

She went to see Joker first, knowing that his presence would at least ease her troubles, and offer her some degree of assurance. Stars speckled the galaxy beyond the glass panes of the cockpit, beyond the rippling kinetic barrier that protected her pilot from any potential hull breach. She found Joker at the controls, of course, right alongside EDI. The two were having a heated argument about where to find the best noodle house on the Citadel; however, their conversation came to an abrupt halt when Shepard entered the room.

"Everything all right?" Shepard asked lightly.

Joker was quick to respond. He swiveled his chair around in one fluid movement and boasted, "Yeah, just, you know, telling this thing that it doesn't know crap about where to find some good noodles. You want tasty fucking noodles? You go straight to this little hole-in-the-wall place in the Wards called Hatsumomo, and I tell you, they're food is the absolute _best_. They've got _everything - _chow mein, udon, ramen, those weird but awesome turian gel noodles…nothing compares." He stole a pointed glance in EDI's direction. "At all. None. Whatsoever. Nope. Anything else is just shit in noodle form."

Without waiting for the AI to respond, he directed his attention to Shepard and said, feigning excitement, "By the way, Commander, thanks for bringing Garrus back! That's _great_, because he was totally my favorite." Snidely, he added, "With that pole up his ass."

Shepard shook her head and sighed, though more out of amusement than annoyance. "Really, Joker. You ought to give him a chance. He's a good guy. And he's been through hell these past few days."

"Yeah, I know the feeling." His eyes shifted over to EDI, and he rolled his eyes. "Anyway, whatever, it's cool to have him back, I guess. He _is_ part of the old crew. And I'd rather have him around than that Jacob guy. He's about as boring as a wet towel. At least Garrus says some funny shit from time to time. Even if he is a pain in the ass." After a moment, he snorted. "You sure do know how to pick 'em, Commander."

"_Joker. _Maybe you should try and spend some quality time with Garrus. Take him to your favorite noodle place next time we have shore leave."

"Shit, yeah, I'll do that next time I want to shoot myself from the embarrassment. Nah, I'll leave that to you, Commander. Go ahead and take him out for a drink or a bite to eat or something, or do things turians do, or do him, man, whatever tickles your fancy." Shepard flushed, but Joker didn't seem to notice. "God knows the guy could use some R&R that doesn't involve nitpicking the shit out of everyone or bragging about his _calibrations_."

"I'll do that," Shepard said, unable to hide the exasperation in her voice. "_Brilliant_ idea."

"_Thanks_."

After a short conversation with EDI, in which she alluded to Joker's irrelevant biases for restaurants, Shepard left the cockpit and started across the CIC, wondering where to go next. She considered visiting Dr. Chakwas in the Med-Bay, but then thought otherwise. There was someone else she wanted to see, and although she knew she should let him rest, she still wanted his company. He was familiar to her, and now, as she was unable to sleep or eat or even think, she wanted to surround herself with familiarities. It was the same reason why she had sought out Joker, as the Normandy drifted smoothly through the infinite plane of space. She wanted to find contentment in her old comrades, between Joker's hilarity and crudeness, and Garrus' smooth, sardonic tone.

So she took the elevator down to the crew quarters and made her way to his cabin, which was located on the starboard side of the ship. She almost laughed aloud at how nervous she felt. It was both ridiculous and hilarious to her. She'd led the way into hundreds of battles, had stood before some terrifying things she preferred not to think about, had seen soldiers fall around her, had taken long, agonizing breaths during the calm before every storm - and yet, she was still just a human with human emotions. The anxiety coursing through her veins like some kind of electrical current was pure evidence to that fact. _How foolish, _she thought.

Her knock was soft, tentative. When he opened the door, she saw one eye widen with shock, then narrow.

"Shepard?"

"Can I come in?" she asked.

"Of course." He slid to one side, allowing her to pass.

His quarters were clean and methodical. The window offered a soothing view of the stars outside, sprinkling a seamless stretch of galaxy. The little furniture he had was glossy and black, some of the shelves layered with unmarked books. A large monitor occupied one of the walls, the screen flooded with the details and intricacies of a firing mechanism - something that certainly was no surprise to anyone who knew Garrus even remotely well. His sniper rifle lay against the opposite wall, near a pile of discarded armor. A glass table in the middle of the room held several items: his visor, a bottle of medication, and a giant glass of water.

She looked around for a moment, then turned to him. He'd undressed out of his armor, and was wearing very dark clothing that draped from his wiry frame.

He cleared his throat. "What brings you here, Commander?"

"Figured I'd check up on you. I wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm holding up. Just a missile to the face, you know. Nothing a turian like me can't handle." He cracked a smile, revealing two rows of narrow, pointed teeth.

"You are incredibly durable," Shepard laughed. "I'm honestly surprised we got you in one piece."

"Minus a few cybernetics, but who's complaining? I'd rather be alive than blown apart, in any case."

"Yeah, you got that right," Shepard said, her voice distant.

She was suddenly thinking of her own death, and how the recent events involving Garrus were not so different from hers. She'd faced a devastating explosion, had slid agonizingly into the shadowy reaches of space, had suffocated in her suit. Her body had been pulverized, her flesh and bones reduced to nothing but pulp. Now she was alive, Commander of the new and improved Normandy, her body bound to the cybernetics that Cerberus had used to keep her alive. How strange was it that Garrus had been through the same situation, albeit on a different world, in a different place? And yet, the two of them were still here, against all odds. It was as if death had become meaningless. All that mattered now was living long enough to save the galaxy.

Almost as if he could read her mind, Garrus asked her, "What was it like?"

"Dying?" When he nodded, she folded her arms and speculated, "I don't know. I can't remember." She bit her lip, as flashes of memories sliced through her mind like shards. "But it wasn't painless. As I'm sure you know."

"Actually, I didn't feel a thing. Mostly just cold. I've felt a lot of pain over the years - bullets, biotics, failures, defeats - but this… was something peculiar. I don't know how to explain it, exactly. It was like my entire body was numb. Frozen." He shook his head, as though attempting to scatter the memory. "But I did hear your voice. That's what I can remember."

She gave him a smile. "It's good to see you again."

"And you. I thought you were gone." He crossed the room with slow, careful movements and settled on the disheveled bed, one hand at his plated brow. "We all did. It was very...difficult to accept. Commander Shepard? Dead? It was just a...I don't know, _foreign _concept. And to be frank, seeing you in battle, defeating all the odds that were thrown at you, well… there were times when I thought that someone like you could _never_ die."

He shrugged, looking embarrassed at his confession. Shepard settled beside him, her eyes not once leaving his ravaged face, as he continued, "We all fell apart after your death, much to the Alliance's satisfaction. I don't think they approved of your, ahem, _colorful _assortment of diverse crew. Come to think of it, we_ were _a strange collection, weren't we? Turian, quarian, asari, human, krogan…"

"The strangest," Shepard agreed, though she felt nothing but pride at the words. "Two years was a long time, Garrus. But it's good to be back."

She let her eyes drift across the wounded turian, studying everything from the smoothness of his metallic skin, to the pale shade of rain-colored eyes that peered at her through pooling black lids. She was right. Two years had been a long time, and in that span of missed days, and weeks, and months, she could see that much had changed about her turian comrade. She'd seen it the moment they'd stumbled upon each other on Omega, as soon as he lowered his rifle and removed his helmet. There was a hardness to him, like a chipped blade that had been broken down, bit by bit. A cold emptiness now filled his eyes, reminding her of hollow tunnels. Shepard knew that Archangel was the reason behind this deterioration; in adapting that hardened identity, Garrus had lost sight of himself all those months on Omega, transitioning from a passionate idealist to a steely extremist.

And while he still seemed to have that sharp mind and dry humor that marked Garrus Vakarian, it seemed paler, somehow, smothered beneath the folds of bitterness and a broken soul.

"How do you feel about joining up with Cerberus?" she queried.

"I don't trust them. But I trust you. I always have." He laid his head down on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling with a curious look. "Every single one of your crew would have followed you into oblivion, Shepard. Myself included." He chuckled softly. "Loyalty is one hell of a thing."

"That it is."

"You've been good to me, Commander. To let me accompany you on your mission all those years ago… let a _turian _join your human crew… well, let's just say I'm still flattered."

"I wouldn't have been able to do any of this without you, Garrus," she confessed. Then she smirked. "Who _else_ would have been there to make such crap jokes all the time?"

He choked out a laugh. "True, true."

She felt calm now, as she listened to Garrus' slow, murmuring voice. She studied his elongated turian frame in the thin, shifting light, and wondered why she'd never even considered pursuing him. Over the years she'd come to see him as a close friend, someone she could rely on, and share drinks with, and always trust watch her back. She'd flirted with him from time to time, of course. He'd flirted back. Sometimes they'd take their banter a little too far, but nothing had ever come of it. They'd just been friends, and nothing more. So she'd sway her hips a little more than necessary while walking in front of him at times; so he'd growl something in her ear, and occasionally let his mandible brush her neck. But it was all playful. Nothing serious. Nothing remotely implicative.

She'd always seen him on the battlefield, or seated alongside her in the Mako, or else perched before an array of computers, calibrating his heart out. Sometimes, she'd meet him at the bars on Citadel or Illium, where they'd taunt one another and toss down drinks that sizzled in her throat and made her yearn for a quick, casual encounter. But never had she seen him in his most private moments, his quarters included. Come to think of it, she'd never caught him out of his armor, either. Seeing him in nothing more than plain, nondescript clothing was foreign, but she didn't mind it at all. In fact, she was _glad _to finally have this level of casual intimacy, albeit how trivial it seemed. It blurred the line between commander and crewmate, and of close, but not _too _close friends.

"At least we both have scars now," the turian said, his voice heavy with sleep. "I don't think I've ever looked this _good_."

"I don't think so, either. Just wait until all those krogan females get their hands on you."

"Oh, don't remind me, Shepard, you'll make me start to dry heave."

Shepard laughed, and he cracked a small smile. When she stood, he heaved himself up on the bed by his uninjured elbow and watched her through half-closed, weary eyes.

"You're going?"

"I should let you rest."

"I'm resting just fine," he protested. "You ought to stay. Please."

"Of course."

She settled on the side of the bed again, more than happy to oblige. Garrus shifted closer to her, and she was suddenly aware of his cold breath on her neck. He had a peculiar, musky scent, something between pine needles and pennies, but it was a pleasant smell, nothing that made her want to turn away.

"Forgive me for being a selfish insubordinate, Commander, but I haven't seen you in two years. I'm not ready to let you go just yet."

"Fine by me," Shepard said. Her skin tingled as she faced the exhausted turian. She watched him lean back against the bed frame, his eyes on the pearly pinpricks of stars that glistened beyond the observatory window. He stretched his long limbs and mused, "My father used to tell me that you could only see the world in two shades: black and white. That was it. You either stood with something, or against something. He was always so clean cut, my father, that he never stopped to think about what lay in between. I used to ask him, 'but what about the gray parts?' And he'd shake his head, as if an stupid young turian such as myself couldn't be any more ignorant, and say that there was no such thing as gray. There are only two sides to every coin. I didn't used to agree with him. But now…"

"Now?" Shepard knew Garrus was tired, gradually tumbling into a delirious state. She'd never heard him talk about his family before.

"I'll admit… it's so much easier to see the world in black, and white. Gray… I don't know what to do with gray."

Silence seeped into the cabin, drifting between them. Shepard was curious. She wanted to hear him speak, to muse aloud thoughts that he usually kept hidden. She waited, saying nothing. It wasn't until his heavy eyes slid in her direction that she let her honest thoughts come spilling from her lips. "Omega changed you, Garrus," she murmured.

"In many ways, yes, Shepard, it did. I lost sight of everything. I lost my temper, my squad, myself…I made so many mistakes, and wounded so many people. Things feel so…_ jaded_ now, I suppose, and it's like I'm looking at the world through a different pair of eyes." He heaved a long, exhausted sigh, something that, for some reason, sounded so sad to Shepard. Maybe it was because she knew the toll Omega had taken on him; maybe because she could feel how brittle he'd become. "But you want to know something funny? While I sat in that dark building, sweating and hungry and tired and angry, I don't know if I was fighting just for the sake of survival." His voice rang hollow, thick with emptiness, and loneliness. Enough to make her hurt.

"For your squad, maybe?"

His hand slid across the sheets, one careful talon brushing her worn knuckles. "For everyone I thought I'd lost."

And she knew, without asking, exactly what he meant.


End file.
